The Wheel of Love. Anthony HopeЧитать онлайн книгу.

      I. The Virtuous Hypocrites

      CHAPTER I

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      THE VIRTUOUS HYPOCRITES

      AT first sight they had as little reason for being unhappy as it is possible to have in a world half full of sorrow. They were young and healthy; half a dozen times they had each declared the other more than common good-looking; they both had, and never knew what it was not to have, money enough for comfort and, in addition that divine little superfluity wherefrom joys are born. The house was good to look at and good to live in; there were horses to ride, the river to go a-rowing on, and a big box from Mudie’s every week. No one worried them; Miss Bussey was generally visiting the poor; or, as was the case at this moment, asleep in her arm-chair, with Paul, the terrier, in his basket beside her, and the cat on her lap. Lastly, they were plighted lovers, and John was staying with Miss Bussey for the express purpose of delighting and being delighted by his fiancée, Mary Travers. For these and all their mercies certainly they should have been truly thankful.

      However the heart of man is wicked. This fact alone can explain why Mary sat sadly in the drawing-room, feeling a letter that was tucked inside her waistband and John strode moodily up and down the gravel walk, a cigar, badly bitten, between his teeth, and his hand over and again covertly stealing toward his breast-pocket and pressing a scented note that lay there. In the course of every turn John would pass the window of the drawing-room; then Mary would look up with a smile and blow him a kiss, and he nodded and laughed and returned the salute. But, the window passed, both sighed deeply and returned to lingering those hidden missives.

      “Poor little girl! I must keep it up,” said John.

      “Dear good John! He must never know,” thought Mary.

      And the two fell to thinking just what was remarked a few lines back, namely, that the human heart is very wicked; they were shocked at themselves; the young often are.

      Miss Bussey awoke, sat up, evicted the cat, and found her spectacles.

      “Where are those children?” said she. “Billing and cooing somewhere, I suppose. Bless me, why don’t they get tired of it?”

      They had—not indeed of billing and cooing in general, for no one at their age does or ought to get tired of that—but of billing and cooing with one another.

      It will be observed that the situation promised well for a tragedy. Nevertheless this is not the story of an unhappy marriage.

      If there be one thing which Government should forbid, it is a secret engagement. Engagements should be advertised as marriages are; but unless we happen to be persons of social importance, or considerable notoriety, no such precautions are taken. Of course there are engagement rings; but a man never knows one when he sees it on a lady’s hand—it would indeed be impertinent to look too closely—and when he goes out alone he generally puts his in his pocket, considering that the evening will thus be rendered more enjoyable. The Ashforth—Travers engagement was not a secret now, but it had been, and had been too long. Hence, when Mary went to Scotland and met Charlie Ellerton, and when John went to Switzerland and met Dora Bellairs-the truth is, they ought never to have separated, and Miss Bussey (who was one of the people in the secret) had been quite right when she remarked that it seemed a curious arrangement. John and Mary had scoffed at the idea of a few weeks’ absence having any effect on their feelings except, if indeed it were possible, that of intensifying them.

      “I really think I ought to go and find them,” said Miss Bussey. “Come, Paul!”

      She took a parasol, for the April sun was bright, and went into the garden. “When she came to the drawing-room window John was away at the end of the walk. She looked at him: he was reading a letter. She looked in at the window: Mary was reading a letter.

      “Well!” exclaimed Miss Bussey. “Have they had a tiff?” And she slowly waddled (truth imposes this word—she was very stout) toward the unconscious John. He advanced toward her still reading; not only did he not see her, but he failed to notice that Paul had got under his feet. He fell over Paul, and as he stumbled the letter fluttered out of his hand. Paul seized it and began to toss it about in great glee.

      “Good doggie!” Cried Miss Bussey. “Come then! Bring it to me, dear. Good Paul!”

      John’s face was distorted with agony. He darted toward Paul, fell on him, and gripped him closely. Paul yelped and Miss Bussey observed, in an indignant tone, that John need not throttle the dog. John muttered something.

      “Is the letter so very precious?” asked his hostess ironically.

      “Precious!” cried John. “Yes!—No!—It’s nothing at all.”

      But he opened Paul’s mouth and took out his treasure with wonderful care.

      “And why,” inquired Miss Bussey, “are you not with Mary, young man? You’re very neglectful.”

      “Neglectful! Surely, Miss Bussey, you haven’t noticed anything—like neglect? Don’t say——”

      “Bless the boy! I was only joking. You’re a model lover.”

      “Thank you, thank you. I’ll go to her at once,” and he sped towards the window, opened it and walked up to Mary. Miss Bussey followed him and arrived just in time to see the lovers locked in one another’s arms, their faces expressing all appropriate rapture.

      “There’s